Archive of Our Own

I try to steady my breathing as dread creeps up my throat. I’m rising on a small platform—an “elevator,” I heard someone say—that creaks with slow, rickety movements. It’s like thunder in my ears. Everything echoes and bounces around my head as the surface draws nearer, and when I look down, my hands are trembling like leaves in a storm. I’m not sure if it’s breakfast trying to fight its way up, but a small, choked sob escapes from me—almost like a cough—and I clench my fists and hold my breath, slowly releasing it after my heart rate calms.

Then I laugh to myself.

Like leaves in a storm.

That’s something Annabel Lace would say.

One of her clever little aphorisms that would stick in your ear like honey. Something that made you pause before you mulled it over and realized she was being truthful. The thought of her brings me back to reality, easing me for a moment, until I’m able to focus on the task at hand. The elevator is still rising, but the voice of a countdown can be heard more clearly. It won’t be long before the platform stops, and I need to be completely focused.

This is the Hunger Games.

This is a quarter quell.

And this is the debut of a new arena.

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

It’s warm.

The outfit I’m wearing traps heat, clinging to my skin like a wetsuit. Its rubbery texture reminds me of the old fancy swimwear Annabel Lace would sometimes wear. She said it came from her grandmother, long before the Dark Days, before there was even a war and the Covey could travel all over Panem. Unlike her grandmother’s bathing suit, mine is a dark grey color, like slate or stone. There’s a single, black belt along my hips, and black, cosmetic lines trace up my arms and sides—the only indication that I’m from District 12. Other tributes have different colors to make them stand out, but they’re bright enough that it’s easy to spot.

There’s a salty scent in the air, and humidity hits me in the face in a way that reminds me of old summer days. It’s like the Seam after a storm—hot and wet and suffocating—only there’s a lack of coal dust and a thick layer of fog that seems to gather over a yellow beach. I blink as my eyes adjust to the light, taking in my surroundings. To my right, there’s an endless, deep blue ocean with rolling waves that crash ashore. To my left, thick, dense trees and foliage offer coverage but no clear path. The sun is high above me, indicating noon, hanging in a cloudless sky, and it feels so real and bright that I almost forget it’s all fake.

It’s fake.

This isn’t a real beach. That isn’t the real sun. I am standing on a platform before a tall, looming, golden, metal structure in the jagged shape of a cornucopia because this is a reminder.

The structure is filled to the brim with weapons, food, supplies, and everything I could ever need to survive for the next several days, but the truth is that it’s phony. The Cornucopia is not generous; it’s minacious. These gifts aren’t real—just a threatening counterfeit. The truth is that I will never see the real world again. This technology, this architecture, this impressive simulation will be my tomb, and I know that going to the Cornucopia will ensure my death.

0:51, 0:50, 0:49…

Focus.

The countdown’s begun, so that means I have to be ready to go. The plan is to grab what I can and run from the center. The ocean is probably a no-go, so I’ll have to retreat to the woods. Surely, my partner will do the same. She’s always been much smarter than me—hell, she probably put this together faster than me—so that means I should trust her to make the same call and run into the woods.

0:34, 0:33, 0:32…

There are several packs scattered further out, closer to me. I’ll still have to run towards the Cornucopia, but I’m fast enough. It’ll be quick. In and out. Tributes from District 2 and 9 are on either side of me, but I’m pretty sure I can beat them to the supplies, forcing them towards the bloodbath. All I would have to do is run towards the forest and find my partner.

That’ll be easy enough.

Get the packs, run to the forest, and find my partner.

0:22, 0:21, 0:20…

I scan the rest of the surrounding area, taking in the tributes around me. I need to know who will be a direct threat. The blonde from District 2—Venus, I think her name was—might be a problem, but the rest of the tributes between me and the forest don’t seem to be Careers.

It’s still a concept I’m not entirely privy to—the idea that there are “Career” districts.

It’s not unknown that winners of the Games are often from Districts 1 and 2, as well as District 4 and, sometimes, District 11. What’s new, however, is the idea of the Careers—tributes from District 1, 2 and 4 that often team up and travel in a pack. I’m pretty sure the name “Career” was only coined a few years ago, but their tradition of victory goes back to the early years of the Hunger Games.

I know that if I want to live, I need to distance myself from Venus.

As I continue my scan of the area, my eyes land on dark, chocolate hair curled around a feather, and I smile, realizing that luck has not spared me today. She can’t be more than twenty feet—maybe even ten—from the edge of the forest. There are scattered supplies in front of her, enticing her to the Cornucopia, but if she just turned around and sprinted, she’d be hidden in a heartbeat.

I can get to her. I can find her. I can grab a few of the packs and weapons lying before me, and we can be okay. I just need to focus on reaching her and getting past Venus.

Okay, I can do that.

I inhale slowly.

0:05…

A gentle breeze caresses my cheek.

0:04…

The tread of my boots squeaks on the metal platform as I crouch.

0:03…

My eyes lock onto the backpack in front of me.

0:02…

Just behind it, another bundle lies next to what looks like a weapon.

0:01…

I exhale.

A gong sounds, and I push off the platform with all my might, breaking into a full sprint.

The brunette from District 9 bolts off the platform, heading towards the ocean. In the corner of my eye, just to my left, Venus races with me, closing in on the pack that I’m going for. We’re nearly neck and neck, but my path is straighter than hers, and my arm shoots out as I crouch, careful not to break my stride, latching onto the strap of the bag. Venus grunts, veering off in search of more supplies.

Meanwhile, I keep going for the second pack. Now that I’m closer, I can see a spear lying next to it, and the bundle has a knife tied to the knot. Without thinking, I sling the backpack over my shoulders and grab both items off the ground. As soon as they’re in my hands, I throw my leg out to stop, twisting my body weight and pushing at the ground to turn around.

It’s a battlefield before me.

Between me and the forest, kids strike each other—diving for supplies, driving knives into hearts, and raising their arms in defense. Venus is closer to the Cornucopia now and has plunged a machete into the neck of a girl from District 5, and I only have the good sense to run back towards the platforms in hopes of avoiding the assault. Screams cut through the air—the sound of children facing death.

It’s awful. So many young girls are falling, their blood staining the bright, crystal sand, but I don’t have the time to be scared or to cry. One moment of weakness, and I’ll be one of those girls, feeling my muscles contract as I bleed out. I can’t die here. Not right now. Dying means failing, because I swore to myself that I’d get my partner out of here.

Annabel Lace.

Oh, my beautiful Annabel Lace.

I catch sight of her hair blending into the shadows of the trees. A lone, cream-colored feather flits in the air as she disappears into the woods, and I sigh of relief, knowing that she’ll be safe.

I will make sure you get home.

“Annabel Lace,” I hiss, ducking into the trees.

I’ve reached the same spot she had run to from her platform, but she’s nowhere to be seen. I wasn’t far behind her, but she still had about a hundred feet or so to get ahead of me. For all I know, she could be even deeper in the woods, and my tracking skills are pathetic at best.

“Annabel Lace!”

I’m a little bit louder this time, but I still don’t want to draw too much attention to my position. There could be other tributes nearby now that the Games have officially kicked off.

I didn’t see how many chose to run from the Cornucopia, but now that I’m here, I’m wishing I had paid more attention. I was too focused on getting supplies and running after Annabel Lace, but the initial shock and adrenaline are starting to weaken, and that leaves me worried.

Dread overtakes me, and I panic for a moment.

What if she’s fighting someone right now? What if someone else followed her and is tracking her this very instant? What if I don’t get to her in time? What if—

I shake my head. Worrying isn’t going to make this situation any better. I just need to find her and get us far away from the bloodbath. Knowing her, she’s probably thinking the same thing, so if I keep my back to the Cornucopia and just keep walking, surely, I’ll find her.

Readjusting the items in my hands, I secure the backpack on my back and attach the bundle to it. I’ve taken the knife off of it, holding it in my left hand, and the spear remains in my right hand.

Currently, it’s a walking stick, but with all the flora surrounding me, I have no complaints. The ground is uneven, and vines and bushes tangle together along the arena floor. Broken sticks and wildflowers are scattered along my makeshift path, and the sight of it reminds me of home.

It’s impressive how realistic everything seems.

I remember all the big talk surrounding this year’s Games. The first Quarter Quell. The first time the Capitol has debuted an arena designed specifically for this event. From my understanding, there will be a new one constructed each year. Always different from the last.

I didn’t know what to expect, but now that I’m here, it just feels unreal. A part of me keeps thinking that it’s just a dream. I’ll wake up and see my Annabel Lace hovering over me, smiling as the sun halos around her, and I’ll be back in our Meadow, listening to the breeze dance along the grass.

Just a dream.

A scream brings me back to reality.

It comes from behind me, but it’s still closer than I’d like for it to be—maybe a few hundred feet, give or take. I can hear the unnatural rustling of plants—the signs of a struggle. My heart rate quickens, and I focus on trekking forward. If I don’t move, I need to be ready to fight.

The idea of killing someone makes my mouth dry.

A part of me is relieved to know that the tributes this year are all girls. I’d like to think that I could overpower a boy, if it came down to it, but the reality is that my chances of survival are higher now that I don’t have to fight one.

That doesn’t mean I could do it, though.

I’m sure I could if my life were on the line—I know I could if it were Annabel Lace’s—but the thought of killing a person terrifies me. I don’t want to be the one responsible for something like that. I don’t want to watch my opponent’s eyes become empty and distant. I don’t want to be coated or even speckled with their blood, and I don’t want to feel their heart stop beneath my hands.

That’s what the Capitol wants. They take children and turn them into monsters, then they present the monsters to the whole world and say, “See? This is what you are. This is what you always have been.”

I break into a sprint, my legs already tired from lugging the stuff on my back. It’s awkward and heavy, and while I’m used to being on my feet in the Hob, it’s nothing like this—with the uneven ground, branches and twigs smacking me in the face, and the suffocating humidity stifling my breaths. I try to tell myself that it’s just like a night shift, and I will my feet to keep pushing forward, ignoring the pain and the soreness already taking shape.

There’s still no sign of Annabel Lace, but that doesn’t mean she’s gone. I know that she’ll be waiting for me or looking for me, or she’ll be hiding until I make myself known. I just need to be careful about this, but if I keep moving away from the Cornucopia, then I should find her.

As I’m running, cannon firing starts. It scares me, so I grit my teeth and run even faster. The Hunger Games have never had something like this before. All the weapons given to tributes have always been manual. Primal. Clean deaths don’t get views. I don’t know what this cannon is for or what it means, but it has to be important. Still, I’m disoriented as the forest whizzes past me, but I try my best to keep count. I think I’m off by one or two, and by the time I get to nine, it stops.

Nine.

Nine, nine, nine… I try to rack my brain for any answers. What could it mean?

I walk for what feels like hours. Trees provide apt coverage from the sun, but I still feel my body temperature rising. The suit I’m made to wear isn’t designed all that well for this type of weather, it seems. I’m sure it would be useful in the water, but here in the woods, it traps heat and leaves me feeling dehydrated. As if surviving a death game like this wasn’t bad enough already—water and supplies are low, forcing tributes to live off the land—I’m wearing something that will only kill me faster.

When I finally feel safe enough, I stop, calling out for Annabel Lace. I hope she’s nearby. There’s a high chance that I’ve screwed us both over by venturing so far into the woods, and as far as I know, she doesn’t have any weapons, but I couldn’t risk being found by another tribute. I comfort myself knowing how smart and resourceful she is. These woods aren’t unlike the ones back home, so if anything, she should be okay.

“Annabel Lace!”

It’s risky to be so loud, but I pray that no one is nearby. Tributes have surely scattered and formed their groups. The careers will be hunting people if they’re not already, but I’ve had a head start. The sound of another stray cannon startles me, and for a moment, I panic.

“Annabel Lace?” My voice grows louder. “Annabel Lace!”

“Ada?” Her voice immediately soothes me.

It’s close. Annabel Lace is close. I look to my right, where I think the sound is coming from, and start walking. I keep my spear and knife up, ready in case of an attack, but my steps falter with desperation and anticipation.

“Annabel Lace,” I call, a bit quieter this time.

“Ada, I’m here!” Annabel Lace cries, and I stop. She sounds higher than where I’m standing, and when I look up, there she is.

Her dark hair is woven back into two twin braids that split into pigtails. Stray curls and flyaways fall into her eyes, but she doesn’t care. She only looks down at me from where she sits, perched on the branch of a large tree. She’s probably about twenty feet up—give or take—but she’s there.

I let out a sigh of relief, my shoulders dropping.

Thinking back to our younger days, I smirk at her, all smug and charming. “You gonna come down here, or should I get you myself?”

Annabel Lace giggles, and the sound is like music to my ears. “I suppose I’ll save ya the trouble.”

Good. That’s good. She’s still smiling and joking, remembering my little callback to a time when we were younger, playing tag with each other and chasing ourselves up trees. That’s how I want her to be while she’s here. Unapologetically herself. So District, so Covey, so Annabel Lace, up until she gets out of this place. I’ll make sure of it.

She’s in front of me in no time, and I immediately embrace her. She hugs me back, clinging to my shoulders like she’ll fall without the stability, and I can feel her trembling. I try to soothe her by running my hand along her hair, holding onto the back of her head. She buries her face into the crook of my shoulder, and despite my complaining about all the heat, I let her.

“Hey, girl,” I say softly. “Are you okay?”

She nods but doesn’t reply further.

It’s strange to see her rendered so speechless. Back home, Annabel Lace would talk your ear off. She always had something ready to fire from the tip of her tongue—some thought that she’d refuse to let go unspoken. Here, in the Hunger Games, she’s an entirely different person. I know that none of us were ever cut out for this—this punishment enforced on us for a quarter of a century—but holding my forever girl like this, her clinging to me at the prospect of death, I realize just how evil the Capitol really is.

“Did you get anything before you ran?” I ask, leaning back just enough to look down at her. Still, she keeps her face hidden from me and only shakes her head. “That’s okay. I got us some supplies. We need to go through them.”

After a moment, Annabel Lace pulls away from me. I almost expect to see tears, but her eyes are dry. I want to chuckle to myself, shaking my head. She never cries.

Together, we lay everything out.

Inside the backpack are four sleek throwing knives. I run my finger along one of the blades, careful not to cut myself, and I know that I’ll be able to wield them well. After spending many nights with drunkards and idiots, all of them coaxing me into a game or two at the end of a shift at the Hob, I know my way around a knife or two. The ones from the pack are much nicer and sharper than the dull blades from back home, but they weigh the same, they fit in my hand the same, and I’m sure I can throw them the same.

Along with the knives are two large water bottles, as well as some crackers, nut butter spread, and three cans of what I can only assume is food. I want to smile at the sight. It’s not much, but a haul like this from a backpack so far from the Cornucopia is considered a win in my book. If anything, it’s enough to hold us over until we have to start hunting and scavenging for food. The water will be useful, too, and we can ration it while we look for a fresh source or manage to purify the ocean water.

Breaking into the bundle I picked up reveals a tarp and a sleeping bag. Other than the knife and some rope, there isn’t anything else, but for the first day, I think that’s pretty good. I decide the sleeping bag is Annabel Lace’s, and I stuff everything back inside and use the rope to secure the bundle to my backpack. I keep my knives on me, held in place with the belt across my hips, and give the other knife and spear to Annabel Lace.

“You can use the spear as a walking stick, but don’t keep your guard down, alright?” I explain.

She nods, looking much braver than before.

“Hey,” I say, placing my hand on her back. “You’re going to be okay.”

I have to fight the urge to kiss her.

The Hunger Games is televised all over Panem, and there are cameras surely watching us now, even if they’re not airing. Anyone in the Capitol—the Gamemakers, Peacemakers, or even President Snow—could be watching, and I know that kissing her would be taken in abhorrence. I have to be careful. The last thing I need is to put a target on our backs. My one and only goal is to make sure that Annabel Lace makes it out of here alive.

“I’m sorry, I just—” Annabel Lace sucks in a deep breath. “I’m scared.”

“That’s okay,” I reply gently. “I am, too.”

She laughs a little, but there’s no humor. “You don’t look it.”

“Trust me, I am,” I promise. “But I’ve got you to worry about more.”

At that, she rolls her eyes, fighting a smile. “I should be the one worrying about you, Ada. That’s what I always did back in 12.”

It’s true. Back home, I was the shy one. Sure, I was a good worker and a fine server, but Annabel Lace was the one with the strong personality. She’s the one who could command a room from her spot on the stage, and she’s the one who made all the friends, elicited all the smiles, and danced through life with a level of levity that I’ve always lacked.

I just followed her, and she let me. She held my hand and tugged me through life, and I was okay with that, because I didn’t need to be anything more than what she already loved about me. Here, however, I don’t know. It’s different. Maybe because my life is on the line, and—just like I was when I was orphaned—I’m too stubborn to die. I don’t want to be just another coffin in District 12. I don’t want to be a tribute that they see and expect to die.

Not yet, anyway.

Not until my Annabel Lace and I are the only ones standing.

I’m sure she knows it already, what’s going on in my mind. She’s not ignorant to how my brain works and how I like to think, and I’ve never been good at hiding things from her. If it’s not written across my face, then it’s in the cadence of my voice, in the twitching of my fingers. I’ve never wanted to be remembered, and I never needed any sort of glory.

I am willing to die here in exchange for her living, and I will fight until the very end and then some to make sure that Annabel Lace is the one who gets to go back home.

I take her hand in mine, squeezing it.

“So, let me be the one to take care of you now, Annabel Lace.”

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me

“It’s not fair, you know,” I say, my legs spread out over a blanket. The grass is soft beneath me, damp from last night’s rain.

Annabel Lace doesn’t care. Her mahogany hair is splayed across my lap, her head resting on my thigh as she lies crooked on the blanket. Morning dew and moisture seep into the back of her clothes, but her hands remain linked lazily over her abdomen. The closer she is to nature, the better she feels, she says. She always loved a stormy night, running carelessly through the droplets, soaking her from head to toe. Lying with her back to the grass, I know it will stain her lace-trim dress, but she loves it.

“There’s nothing wrong with a little more color, my dear Ada,” she’d say.

Still, Barb Azure will kill her if this dress gets ruined. It’s an old, hand-stitched piece, made by Annabel Lace’s late mother, and while it’s bursting with color from the little embroidered patterns of flowers and plants, I know that it’s much too valuable to be lying in wet grass for too long.

I still take a moment to savor the sight before me.

Its soft, billowing fabric hugs her body at the torso, blossoming into a gorgeous, layered skirt. The skirt cascades over itself with green peeking through—her favorite color. It’s the kind of green you see on a bright, summer day. Like moss in a pond or a newly grown leaf. The dress puffs at the shoulders, sleeves falling loosely down her arms, stopping right above her wrists in a pinched fashion. Along her neckline is the most intricate and delicate lace I’ve ever seen. Carefully threaded and stark white against her golden skin, the trim lies against her collarbone, curving over her bosom. Little flowers and vines are woven into the design, all in her signature color—Lace.

She’s like a honeysuckle—sweet and resilient. The color of her dress always reminds me of the plant’s flowers just before their older age. Not quite white, and not quite yellow. It’s a soft, cream color that sits right between the two, all warm-toned and golden in the right light. The stage of life where the flower is ready for picking; its nectar is sweet, and it’ll only get sweeter.

Annabel Lace is seventeen—growing into herself, her music, and her voice—and she’ll only get sweeter, too.

The Covey love their color, though, and it’s shown in the weaving threads of yellows and oranges and reds curling into shapes of the wildflowers that grow around District 12. The patterns curve around her chest and torso, vines wrapping themselves down her sleeves. The dress itself is like the Meadow they lie in, and the green in her skirt is the grass they’re spread upon.

“What’s not fair?” Annabel Lace asks. Her eyes are closed, and her fingers tap along to an imaginary melody that she’s surely singing in her mind.

“The Games this year,” I explain. I try to sound frustrated, but I’m anything but. I can’t be frustrated when the sun is shining down on me like this, and Annabel Lace is in my lap looking like that. “It’s not fair. Our chances of being reaped have been doubled.”

“It’s not doubled; the pool is just smaller,” she quips, opening her eyes.

I look down at her and brush away a stray strand of hair, trying to ease the butterflies in my stomach. It doesn’t help that she’s smiling up at me with a teasing lilt in her voice. The sun shines in her brown eyes like light through a crystal. They light up and twinkle in a golden, amber color, and I want to melt into them.

“Isn’t that the same thing?” I ask, coaxing her out of the grass.

She sits up. “It’s not like our names were put in twice the amount as normal.”

“But they’re drawing from the girl’s bowl two times.”

Her lips quirk into a little smirk. “Touché.”

I raise my chin a little, proud that I’ve stumped her. Annabel Lace has always been too smart for me. It’s a wonder I even stand out to her, and I don’t know what it was that made her pick me all those years ago, but I’m glad she did.

She claims that it’s because our names both start with the letter A.

I think I just got lucky.

“However,” she starts, and I can’t help but smile. I should’ve known she wouldn’t let me off the hook so easily. “What’s really unfair is that the boys get to sit out this year, not that our names will be drawn from twice. Next year isn’t a quarter quell, which means that next year, the tributes go back to being one boy and one girl.”

Annabel Lace holds up two fingers—one from each hand—in demonstration.

“So, while the girls lose twice as many this year, the boys lose none. And there won’t be another quarter quell for twenty-five more years,” she concludes. “That’s unfair. The Capitol won’t host a Hunger Games with all boys, and if they do, it won’t be for over two decades.”

“But how else will the rebels remember that women and children died in the war, too?” I ask sarcastically, leaning over to brush my nose against hers.

She laughs, but she doesn’t pull away, nuzzling against me. We stay like that for a moment, wrapped and tangled together. We’re hidden in the tall wildflowers of the Meadow and the solitude from being on the outskirts of District 12. It’s not that I’m ashamed to love her, and I know Annabel Lace isn’t ashamed to love me, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy.

There’s a reason the only place I can find work is at the Hob. I don’t choose to serve liquor in the black market of Panem’s poorest district, but it’s the only “business” that’ll have someone like me—I guess I have Sae to thank for that. It’s different for Annabel Lace, Barb Azure, and Clerk Carmine. They’re Covey and much more beloved, despite their… relations. They’re never short of work, because someone’s always looking for a performance.

Still, it’s different from how it used to be. I was barely alive—just a small, squirming toddler—when the Covey I know and love was in its prime. They used to perform almost every night in the Hob, singing songs and making music for district members and Peacekeepers alike. Annabel Lace would rave about how it used to be, despite being a toddler herself. How they used to play upbeat and thunderous tunes echoing across the fields.

Voices like a mockingjay, they always made you stop and listen. Their shows were electric, and they brought people together. Growing up, I knew many Peacekeepers to frequent the Hob and listen to the band; they’d buy white liquor and drink until they were stumbling back to their base. It’s still like that now. Sometimes. The Covey doesn’t perform as often as they used to, but on special occasions, they’ll draw a crowd in and play. Sometimes, they’re requested by the mayor or even at the Commander’s base, but it’s not the same.

No one talks about it.

I barely understand it myself.

All I know is that it’s a soft spot for the Covey, and even Annabel Lace—who has promised me a lifetime of her company—doesn’t like to bring it up. It’s a wound that still has yet to heal over. Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber are especially tight-lipped over it. Barb Azure and Maude Ivory get this sad, distant look when they’re reminded of it.

And Annabel Lace.

My beautiful Annabel Lace.

She only ever gives me a sorrowful smile and murmurs something about how she misses her cousin.

The one and only victor of District 12.

Lucy Gray, I’m told was her name. She was Covey, a Baird like my Annabel Lace. If I have my family lineage right, they would be second cousins, though the Covey have so many family branches—both blood-related and not—that it’s hard to keep track. I’ve given up on asking Annabel Lace to explain it to me, but I do enjoy the fond look in her eyes when she’s pretending to be exasperated.

I don’t know much about this Lucy Gray. The Covey doesn’t talk about her, and District 12 seems hellbent on forgetting her. There’s an innate curiosity surrounding the girl, however, considering she’s our sole victor, but there’s no trace that she ever even lived. She exists as a ghost in the people of District 12’s minds, and despite there now being a Victors’ Village, the area remains empty and unused.

People recall a girl who could sing like a canary, a dress with a rainbow of ruffles in the skirt, and dark, curly hair woven with wildflowers, but that’s all she is. An afterimage, with the only proof of her existence being a stone slate with a line from her ballad engraved on the rock. As far as I know, the Covey erected it out of assumption and respect rather than validity. Fifteen years later, and the mystery of Lucy Gray lives on.

Wherever she’s gone, I get the feeling she doesn’t plan on coming back.

And with her, she took the spirit of the Covey.

“Do you think that it’ll be okay?” Annabel Lace’s voice is a whisper against my neck.

I find myself blinking back to the Meadow, and I realize that we’re both trembling. The Reaping is tomorrow, so there’s no excuse of cold weather I can use to dismiss the creeping anxiety. It’s not like I can lie to Annabel Lace either. There’s no point, since she seems to catch me every time.

The truth is that I’m terrified. I’m not exactly merchant class, and while I get by with my earnings from the Hob, it’s not easy being an orphan in the poorest district in Panem. It’s a wonder I’ve made it this far, on the cusp of eighteen, so close, yet so far from escaping the annual threat of the Hunger Games.

I don’t want to worry Annabel Lace, so I force myself to calm down and hold her tight. “Don’t worry. Your name is only in there six times.”

“But what about you? You’re in there ten times, but them drawing twice means you might as well be in there twenty times!”

I smooth her hair over with my palm, shushing her. “There are people who have taken more than me. I don’t have to take tesserae for family or anything like that. Only myself, and I stopped taking it after my fifteenth birthday. It’ll be alright, Annabel Lace.”

The words I promise hang off my tongue, taken by the wind before I can utter them aloud. It feels too wrong to promise anything to anyone right now. Once upon a time, people had thought that the Games would end and that there would be promise of a new age in prosperity and District-Capitol freedom.

I almost want to scoff to myself at how that turned out.

Somewhere along the way, President Snow came into power. He strengthened the Games and solidified them as the nation’s symbol of power. They’re a reminder to all of us in the districts that the Capitol will always hold that over us, and no matter what happens or who wins, they will always have power. That’s about the only promise you can keep in Panem right now.

Annabel Lace hums, satisfied with my poor attempt at concealing my nerves. She sits back on her heels, fluffing her dress out along the grass, and smiles. “Did you know that Maude Ivory has a boyfriend?”

My lips curl, and I sit forward. “Since when?”

“Not for long,” she answers smugly. “She’s been getting smitten with a guy from town—the old coal mining fella that comes to all of our shows. She’s already talking like she’s going to marry him. Says she wants to start a family in a few years.”

“Does he know that?”

“I think they’re going to take it slow. No one’s in a rush to have kids these days, but I caught her making a list of baby names that she likes. She said it’s just so she can keep track of her ideas.”

There’s a slight mischievous look in her eye as Annabel Lace continues to smile at me. She loves this kind of gossip—innocent girls’ talk that we get to share together. The idea of Maude Ivory having a boyfriend isn’t really news to me or the Covey. I know exactly who the boyfriend is, considering he’s at the Hob every time the band plays there, but it’s still fun and exciting, and I’m sure Maude Ivory is glowing like the brightest star in the Dipper. It was only a matter of time before they got together.

Still, it’s the day before the Reaping, and Annabel Lace has a smile on her face. I want to entertain her.

“I already know you peeked at the list,” I say teasingly. “So, what sort of names did you see?”

Annabel Lace looks up to the sky, tapping her chin dramatically. She hums in thought, relaxed and sun-kissed, and I try not to map the freckles that bespeckle her cheeks and nose. “I saw Randall, Jack, and Tom for boy names.”

“And for the girls?”

“Emily, Lenore, and Margaret. I told her I like Lenore the best.”

I smile, and Annabel Lace cranes her neck to look at me. They’re fine names. I don’t know their origins, but I’m sure the Covey do. They always pick a name from a ballad and follow it up with a color. I’m sure that whatever Maude Ivory eventually chooses, when the time is right, will be just as unique and head-turning as the rest of them.

That’s how my Annabel Lace came to be. “Annabel” from an old poem, and “Lace” as the color. Something about it just rolls right off the tongue, and I find myself addicted to murmuring it. She has a way of getting in your head like that—her name, her voice, her very being—like an earworm for an old tune that you just can’t shake.

Not that I’d ever want to shake Annabel Lace. I consider myself lucky enough to be worth her time. The fact that she loves me back just the same is simply a bonus that I don’t plan on abusing.

“Can I be frank with you, Ada?” she asks, with her eyes wide in a pleading disposition.

“What is it?”

Annabel Lace pauses for a moment, words barely forming at the mouth, caught in the back of her throat. Her brow shines with a gleam of sweat, and her face falls in concern and trepidation. I could blame it on the heat, but I know that’s not the case.

“I’m scared for tomorrow,” she whispers. “I’m all tongue-tied and jittery. I keep thinking something bad’s going to happen.”

“Don’t worry, love,” I say back just as gently. My fingers caress the soft skin of her cheek, and I savor the touch—the feeling—of her. “Everything will be okay.”

“How can you promise that to me?”

The look in her eye is devastating. It washes over me in violent waves, and all I want to do is hold her tight and tell her that I’ll always protect her. She deserves that kind of promise from her partner, doesn’t she? What would be the point of me if I couldn’t do something as simple as that?

Then again, Annabel Lace has always been the one pulling me around. I’m not the girl who can bring a crowd to tears with just one note. I’m not the girl who dances and spins and twirls on stage, basking in the light and soaking in the cheers—receiving flowers, blown kisses, and smiles. I’m not the girl who can light up the world.

I’m no flame.

I’m barely a spark.

Still, I say the words she needs to hear—the words I have to say:

“Because you’re my forever girl.”

And she smiles at me. It’s all soft like butter, spreading across her face until her eyes are flickering down to my lips, and I know what comes next.

“You’re my forever girl,” she says, leaning in.

I meet her halfway—eager myself. Her kisses are much like her voice when she sings. Warm and soft. They make my heart stop and my head spin, and it feels like I’m floating in air as her lips press to mine. We don’t get to have this often, so I savor it—the taste of my Annabel Lace. It’s not like we’re ashamed of each other, but we don’t exactly advertise our relationship either. It’s best that way. The Covey know, and I think a few people at the Hob have us figured out, but everyone else in the district operates on rumors, and we can handle a little hushed talk.

When I pull away, her smile is fuller, and I can see her fighting to grin wider. I think, that’s no good, and give her another kiss, trying to coax her into relaxing until she’s giggling from being peppered with kisses. I take my time, pressing my lips gently to every single one of her beautiful freckles, and I can’t help but feel like I’m the luckiest girl in the world.

Sure, maybe I’m just some Seam orphan. I’ve fought for survival my whole life, and there’s no chance of me “moving up.” It’s not like you can travel between districts, and no self-respecting merchant boy or girl will look at someone who looks like me—straight black hair, pale olive skin, and dark grey eyes. No, but that doesn’t really matter to me. Not when Annabel Lace is holding me so close and smiling so brightly.

When I finally pull away, there’s a proper look in her eye, and she’s glowing in the sunlight. We move wordlessly—too familiar to the tune of each other’s songs—and slowly start to pack ourselves up. It’ll be time to work soon. Annabel Lace has one more performance for tonight at the Hob to “celebrate” the eve of Reaping Day, so that means I have to be ready to serve food and liquor, too. The reality of tonight will be filled with people trying to forget or drown their sorrows—most of them hope to do both—but work is work, even the night before the Reaping, so we best head back to the main part of town.

“I’ll see you at the Hob tonight, yeah?” I ask. My fingers don’t want to let go of hers, and I stretch my arm as far as I can, even as she slowly departs from me. I can already see Tam Amber standing in the door to the Covey’s house, so I know I shouldn’t delay her.

“Yeah, so you better be ready for a hell of a show,” she quips, winking and scrunching her nose with a smile. “And after… Maybe I could come back with you?”

“I don’t know why you’d want to,” I reply, blowing out a puff of air. “The Covey’s got a lot better facilities than what I can manage.”

“The Covey doesn’t have you.”

I smile, shaking my head. My “home” might as well be an old, rundown shack. It’s a miracle I even have it, but when I was younger and just starting to find work, I came upon an older man who had no family, no job, and no one to take care of him. He had grown up in District 12 before the Dark Days, and while he never fought against the Capitol himself, he knew people who did. At the end of the day, it was a match made in heaven. He needed a caregiver, and I needed a roof over my head.

Then, when he passed, I found out that everything had been left to me.

Truthfully, it wasn’t much. I ended up selling his clothes for money—save for a few of his nicer pieces—and going through a lot of old journals and books from before the war. They were interesting, but I couldn’t do anything other than read them, and giving them away or pawning them off just felt wrong. All of his little trinkets and the echoes of his life were left in my name, so I tried my best to preserve them, but the biggest thing was his house.

It’s worn itself down over the years, but it’s mine. I think Annabel Lace prefers it to her home just because of the privacy. I suppose I can’t argue with her there. But the Covey’s house has better insulation, and it’s much bigger than what I have to offer. It’s livelier and better decorated, and stairs that lead to the front door aren’t rotting from the wood’s exposure to rain.

But it’s the day before Reaping Day, and I can never really say no to my Annabel Lace, so I sigh and tell her, “Sure.”

She squeals, tipping forward to give me one more kiss on my cheek. I smile back at her, glad to have made her happy, and watch as she runs to the house where Tam Amber is still waiting.

“I love you, forever girl,” she calls.

“I love you, my forever girl,” I holler back.

And I mean it.

It was something we started saying when we were younger, back when we were friends and only friends. “Best friends forever” or any similar statement didn’t feel quite right, but Annabel Lace had said something along the lines of, “You’ll be stuck with me forever, girl,” and I guess it just caught on. It’s true, though. She is my forever girl, and I know that I’m hers.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;

Annabel Lace is sick.

I know that she’s trying to appear strong for my sake, but I see the hobbling in her steps and hear the raspiness in her breathing every time we move. It doesn’t help that we’re barely getting by, living off of tree bark and scavenged berries. I need to be able to give her something more sustainable than what we’ve been scraping, but food is hard to come by, and there have been no sponsor gifts.

It’s been three days in the arena.

So far, we haven’t come across anyone else, and I suppose the lack of action is what’s keeping us from being sent anything. I’m not exactly sure how the gift system works in the arena, but I doubt we’ll be getting anything any time soon. We’ve been trying to lay low in the woods, huddling together for warmth rather than building a fire, as it’s too dangerous and might attract other tributes to our camp. However, our limited venturing and scarce supplies are starting to catch up to us.

The nights are cold, leaving us shivering and barely sleeping. After two nights of trying not to freeze to death, sickness has befallen my forever girl. Annabel Lace has always gotten sick easily. It started when we were younger, right at the cusp of our teenage years. She had fallen ill with something serious. I don’t know the name of the disease or what it was like, but the Covey were worried, and I think at one point, they thought she might die. All I know is that I didn’t get to see her for weeks, and she was bedridden the entire time. The first day she was healthy again, she still looked so sickly and ghoulish. She had lost a lot of weight, too, and her eyes were sunken and dark.

Ever since then, her immune system hasn’t been the best. She gets by fine enough in District 12 because that’s what she’s used to, but this is an entirely different world. Literally. I’m worried that she could die if I don’t find a way to cure her. Either the elements take her or someone hunts us down, and she’s too weak to defend herself. Both sound horrible, and there’s only so much I can do while we’re here. I thought that, with all the trees and foliage, there might be some wildlife, too. Squirrels or rabbits—anything.

But there isn’t even the chirping of a bird in this entire area. The forest is silent, and there’s nothing I can hunt or trap that will give us energy for the next day. We could be here for another three days—maybe even longer—and in that time, we have to find something to eat. I contemplate heading back to the Cornucopia in hopes of scavenging the supplies left behind, but the truth is I’m scared.

I have no idea how many tributes are left in the games.

I blame this on the Capitol and their fancy, new arena. No one ever told us that the sky would sing Panem’s anthem and display photos of the fallen tributes from the day. The first time it happened, Annabel Lace was asleep, and I kept myself curled around her until I begrudgingly turned around to see what the fuss was about. By the time I realized what was happening, the anthem had played through half of the districts.

The memory of cannon fire comes back to me, and I realize that they weren’t weapons. They were warnings. They were information, telling me when someone took their last breath. I remember running through the woods in search of Annabel Lace, but I curse myself now for not keeping better count.

What was it that I managed? Nine?

At least nine tributes have died, but there have been more since then—numbers that I haven’t kept track of. I’m left wondering if it was purposeful or not, the Capitol not telling us. In previous years, tributes weren’t told how many kids had fallen. The Hunger Games used to be held in old buildings and show stages, where there weren’t many places to hide and run away to. It was easier to count the dead then, but in an arena like this, who knows?

From where I’m standing, I’m pretty sure we’re heading deeper into the forest. The Cornucopia should be at my seven o’clock, and I’m hoping that we’ll find better resources as we keep moving. Annabel Lace is tired, though. She’s tired, and she’s sick, and I don’t have any medicine or food to give her.

I promised that I would make sure she gets out of here, but not if she succumbs to the elements. I’m worried for her, so I coax her to drink some more water and give her the last of the crackers from our backpack. There isn’t much else now. Now, on day three, we either find food and water or we die.

“I can’t believe there aren’t any animals around,” I mutter, more to myself than anything. I’m trying to curb my frustration, hacking away at some of the brush with one of my knives.

“That’s how I remember this place is fake,” Annabel Lace replies. “These aren’t our woods.”

Our woods. Home.

Oh, how I miss it. I miss our Meadow and the lake and the little creatures scampering around the trees—mice and squirrels and rabbits. There was always katniss by the shore, and we’d strip our clothes and go swimming in the summer. Bugs would hum, and birds would chirp, and we would feel free.

“No, they are not,” I say with a sigh. “If they were, I would’ve caught us a rabbit by now.”

Annabel Lace chuckles at my side, a little more breathy than she usually sounds. “Do you know how to prepare one?”

“I know well enough.”

“I think that means ‘no.’”

I frown, meeting her eyes, which gleam as she smiles teasingly. “I’d learn for you.”

“You’d do anything for me,” she quips, but there’s an undertone of sadness. Not enough to alarm me, but I still don’t like how she says it.

She’s not wrong, though.

“I would,” I say.

Annabel Lace pauses for a moment, not speaking as we continue on our path.

“Do you mean that?” she eventually asks.

I nod without hesitation. “You’re my forever girl.”

And she smiles. “And you’re mine.”

Our journey proves nothing fruitful. It feels like we’re walking in circles, and it won’t be long before the sun starts to set. We’ve got maybe an hour or two at best. It’s another day without proper eating, but we still have yet to fight someone else. I consider that a win overall and decide to make camp.

It’s right when we’re starting to unload our stuff that a branch snapping nearby catches our attention.

Annabel Lace coughs, still sick and congested, but her eyes are alert, and she looks past me into the thick foliage. I look around, trying to figure out if it was a person or an animal and if we’re surrounded or not. Taking one of my knives out, I position it in my hand, ready to throw, while I slowly pull the backpack back onto my shoulders.

Another branch snaps, and this time, it’s closer. My head snaps to the sound, sure that we’re not being ambushed, but that doesn’t mean this won’t be a fight. Another snap, another step forward, and I instinctively place myself between the sound and Annabel Lace. She’s got her spear at the ready, but I don’t care. I won’t let her get hurt.

“Be ready to run,” I whisper over my shoulder.

“What?” she hisses. “No way, not without you!”

“Annabel Lace, I need you to be ready.”

My voice sounds more like a low growl, trying not to alert whatever’s coming this way but also emphasizing the direness of the situation.

“I’m fighting, too,” she insists.

“I am not going to let you die.”

“Oh, and I am?”

She scoffs, pressing closer into my back, wrapping her left arm securely around my torso. Her right hand holds the spear, and she takes a defensive position around me. I curse under my breath—angry that she won’t listen but also relieved that I won’t have to face this unknown challenger alone.

There’s another snap, and a figure appears in front of us, just a few feet ahead. It’s large and looming, dark under the cover of the plants, and I know immediately that—whatever it is—it’s not human. A low rumbling of a growl reverberates deep within my gut, emitting from the beast just beyond the trees. It’s definitely some sort of animal, but not one that I can recognize.

My mouth dries.

Muttation.

In the past, there have been all kinds of mutts created by the Capitol—genetically engineered animals and insects meant to serve their barbarous needs. Tracker Jackers and Jabber Jays are probably the most infamous and were used during the Dark Days against the Districts to gather information and to kill. Since then, all kinds of creatures have been tested on, bred, and designed in order to provide entertainment for those watching the Hunger Games. Tributes have died horrible, graphic deaths at the hands of these brutal beasts over the years, and it looks like Annabel Lace and I are next on the list.

“We need to run,” I say.

There’s no fighting this thing. It hasn’t even made an appearance yet, and I can already tell that the mutt is huge. Its steps pound against the forest floor, its growls send chills up my body, and I know that—whatever it is—it will kill us.

Annabel Lace’s grip around my torso loosens, and I use the leverage of movement to shove her away. We have to assume that climbing won’t escape it—not with its size—so the only way out is to use the environment to our advantage and weave through the trees. I take another step back, grabbing onto her wrist with my free hand, and run.

Annabel Lace stumbles after me, trying to match pace, and I pray that adrenaline will allow her to keep up, because we can’t afford to slow down. A roar tears through the air, deep and filled with anger. Malice coats its raspy growls. This is not the sound of an animal defending its territory. We did not stumble across this creature’s den. This is something that has been programmed to tear us apart. Limb from limb.

It runs on all fours after us. I can tell from the rhythm of its booming steps that this mutt is fast, and the only reason we’re able to outrun it is because the trees are breaking up its path.

I’m terrified. My heart races, and my breathing heaves as I push myself to run faster and faster. Annabel Lace is quick behind me. I can hear her boots pounding on the forest floor. We’re probably miles deep into the woods, but we can’t run forever. At some point, we’ll have to either escape it or fight it. Or die trying.

I try to swallow the lump in my throat, weighing the options. We’re getting closer and closer to the edge of the trees, but I doubt that we’ll make it in time. Besides, the beach is too open. The mutt will catch up to us before we’re even at the tribute platforms—much less the Cornucopia—but even if we did make it out there, where would we go?

We’re running out of time and options. My legs ache, and it’s hard to breathe. Annabel Lace is sick, and I know that she’s barely holding on. One wrong move, and we could trip and fall, or I could lose my grip on her, or the mutt could simply catch us.

I’m trying to weigh my options, running the numbers of how long we have left to live when a knife flies past my face, nearly grazing my cheek, and I barely have the good sense to fall to the ground and bring Annabel Lace with me. There are footsteps ahead, but the mutt is still coming. Still, I hear the sickening sound of a blade piercing flesh, and I know that the knife has struck the beast when a deafening howl erupts from behind me.

Annabel Lace is heaving at my side. I pull her close to me, wrapping my arms around her head as the mutt leaps over us and towards the direction where the knife came from. There’s yelling. I make out two—maybe three voices, and I know that this is our chance to get out of here.

I pull both of us up, backing away from the fight. Just ahead, I can see the mutt now, its brown back covered in thick, dark fur. It ripples as its muscles contort and shift, and long, sharp talons protrude from its paws. I’ve seen this animal before, though never in person and not like this.

It’s a bear. Or rather, it was a bear. Or maybe it never was. Maybe it was born like this—imposing and disfigured. Standing on its hind legs, the mutt towers over the other tributes. From the looks of their colors, District 7, I think. They seemed to have teamed up with a kid from District 10.

I don’t remember their names. They escape me now in the midst of panic. One of the girls from District 7 has chestnut hair, wielding an axe as she yells something to her partner—a girl with fiery red hair. She has a knife of some kind, similar to the one that was thrown past me and longer than the ones I carry. The girl from District 10 has dark, almost black hair and tan skin. She’s got a long sword with a sleek, glinting blade. I wonder how the hell she managed to get a hold of something so fine, but I don’t want to stick around and ask.

The three girls face off with the mutt, which makes them look like ants or rodents in comparison to its colossal body. They each look scared but determined, and I wonder if they’ll even stand a chance. One of the girls—the redhead from District 7, who can’t be older than fifteen—catches my eye, and she’s pleading.

This muttation will surely go down fighting. It’ll easily injure, maim, or even kill at least one of them—if not all of them. The more numbers, the better chance we’d have at taking this beast down. The bear is going to attack any moment now. Its claws are longer than the ones depicted in the schoolbooks, spit and foam leaks out of its mouth through jagged yellow teeth, and its eyes glow a burning orange color—like that of a flame.

But if the five of us worked together, we could take it down.

Annabel Lace squeezes my wrist.

I can feel the cold handle of the spear pressing into my skin, and she trembles against me. I want to fight this thing. I want to help them. These people just saved our lives. We would’ve been dead soon if that redhead hadn’t lodged a knife into the bear as it was chasing us, and they’ve already teamed up with another district. What would be one more?

But my love is sick. She’s not standing or breathing properly, and we’ve just run for our lives. I can tell that she’s weak, and she’s growing weaker. If I stay here, even if I tell her not to fight, I can’t guarantee that I won’t be hurt, and I can’t guarantee that the mutt won’t go after her. I also have to factor in the uncertainty surrounding the number of tributes. We don’t know how many people are left in the games. For all we know, we’re the only ones left, and after we kill that bear, what happens?

Realistically, I know the games last longer than this, and there are likely other tributes scattered in the arena. There’s no way the Careers went down so quickly, but… it’s not impossible either. Do I take that chance?

The girl with the fiery hair is still staring at me, begging for help. In front of her, the bear growls and rages, ready to attack, and its back is right to us. Its back is to us. We could take it by surprise. We could throw it off guard.

We could run away.

I’m pretty sure my face doesn’t change. All I can feel is the slight parting of my lips, but even that minute gesture seems to catch in the redhead’s eyes, and her face falls. She already knows what I’m going to do, and I hate it. I hate the look on her face, and I hate the guilt rising from my heart to my throat. I’m sorry before I’ve done anything to be sorry for, and I know that, no matter what, I am going to regret this decision.

I still do it, though.

I take Annabel Lace, and we run towards the beach, my jaw clenching as their screams begin to echo throughout the forest. Later that evening, I hold her close to my chest as we both look up at the sky. The anthem plays, and photos of the tributes that have died today appear next to a fake moon.

The redhead from District 7 is among the deceased.

So that her highborn kinsmen came
 And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

A gentle breeze blows across the Meadow, signaling the approach of early spring. It’s far too cold for us to be sitting out here right now, and I know that it won’t be long before Annabel Lace’s folks start calling her in. They’re still worried about her health, and for good reason, but it’s been weeks since I’ve seen her, and I’ve missed her presence. I can tell she missed me, too, from the way she huddles against me and smiles up at me like I’ve done something spectacular. I don’t know what it is that I did, but I’d do it a million times over just to see her smiling like that more.

I can still sense something else in her gaze, however. Something darker and sadder, sitting just beneath the quiet content that shines in her eyes.

“What’s wrong, Annabel Lace?” I ask, crossing my legs.

She sits up, pulling her knees to her chest, bundled in her winter clothes. “It’s something Clerk Carmine said.”

I furrow my brows. “What was it?”

“He said that we need to be careful.”

Well, that’s vague. There are a lot of things to be careful about when growing up in District 12. Food shortages, drunkards, mine explosions—you name it. Kids mostly have to worry about food and shelter. I surely would have died if not for my arrangement with Mr. Lipp. It’s only been a few months since I’ve started living with him. He’s an older man now, with no family or friends to provide him company or care.

The Covey doesn’t have to worry as much about something like that. They take care of their own, and they’ve always been able to perform for money or food. They’re loved enough here in the district, and as long as they play approved songs, they’re good as gold. Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber make sure of that. For as long as I’ve known of them, they haven’t had any run-ins with the law.

“What do we need to be careful about?” I ask, still confused.

Annabel Lace shrugs, resting her chin on her knees. “He just said that people don’t like folks like us.”

“You mean the Covey?”

“No, I mean us.”

Well, now, I’m just plain confused.

As far as I know, we haven’t done anything wrong. Annabel Lace and I—we’re just a couple of twelve-year-olds, so what could we have possibly done that warrants a warning from Clerk Carmine? We do fine in school, we keep out of trouble, and we only really hang around each other. I get dirty looks from other kids at times when we’re together, but I just assume it’s because Annabel Lace only ever wants to hang out with me. She’s always been popular and well loved, but I can’t help it that I’m the only person she talks to.

The only thing that I can think of is the fence that was just erected beyond the Meadow a couple of years ago. It’s supposed to protect us from the harmful animals that lurk in the woods, so people aren’t allowed to cross it. Sometimes, we do, though. The Covey and I. There’s a little building near a lake where we like to swim and fish and lie in the grass. The Covey have been going there since before the fence was put up, and they know it’s safe.

Technically, the fence is electric, but Barb Azure says it hasn’t been on in over a year. I guess if people knew we were sneaking out of the district, we could get in serious trouble, but that doesn’t explain why only Annabel Lace and I have to be careful.

“I’m not following,” I say, staring at her.

Annabel Lace huffs out a small laugh, causing my face to flush. She always seems to be ahead of me somehow. Like her mind is moving faster than mine will ever be able to. I don’t know how I’m supposed to be her best friend and keep up with her like that.

“Don’t worry about it, Ada,” she simply replies with a smile on her lips.

That memory sticks with me as the seasons continue to change.

Life goes on, and I see Annabel Lace growing by my side, coming into her own. At fifteen, she’s shorter than me, only by a little, but she carries herself more confidently than I do. Her hair grows well past her shoulder blades, kissing the middle of her back and littered with the soft brown feathers of a mourning dove. I remember when she excitedly told me about a couple that decided to nest in her windowsill. She watched them as they built their home, laying two eggs and hatching two babies.

“It was beautiful,” she had said. “Did you know that they mate for life? They find their love, and that’s it. I want a love like that.”

One day, she was able to befriend them. I don’t know how, but I’m not surprised either. She leaves crumbs of bread out on her window, patient and gentle, and now she sees them every spring when it’s time for them to nest again. She calls them her doves, though I’m pretty sure they’re still wild, and she started collecting stray feathers to weave in her hair. The warm, creamy colors contrast greatly against the dark, curly strands. She says it reminds her of coffee just after pouring a spoonful of cream into the cup, right when it begins to swirl and mix. I’ve never seen it myself, as coffee was never a drink I could afford, but I believe her when she says it’s beautiful.

Because she’s beautiful.

I notice the turning heads and the hushed whispers. In school, at the Hob, and around the town square, boys stare at her. One time, when we were together, a kid from the year below us tried to approach her, but she politely turned him away. Annabel Lace has always been the kind of person that catches your eye, but it’s different now. Less like a wildflower peeking over the grass and more like a gem buried in the grime of District 12. I know that the Covey were never truly from District 12, but the more I look at her, the more apparent it becomes.

She is truly something special.

People love her. They love her looks, they love her voice, they love her name, and they just love her. They smile at her, cheer her on, and shout, “Brava!” as she bows on the stage. She dances like fire—hot and bright—and blows kisses out into the crowd, but she only ever smiles at me.

And people hate it.

I hate it.

I hate the way that she looks at me, and I hate the way that she makes me feel. I hate her face, I hate her voice, and I hate the gentle, warm, loving way she says my name with a smile that could make the sun look dull. It’s like my stomach is lurching, and my heart won’t stop racing. Ever since we turned fourteen, I find it harder and harder to be around her, because all I want is to stay by her side.

And I hate it.

There are times when we’re having a completely innocent moment—just the two of us, laughing—and I think about what it would be like to kiss her. I want to kiss her. I want to hold her close and wake up by her side. I want to be able to take her hand in mine, like we used to when we were little, without the repulsed looks or the harsh words thrown our way. I want to tell all the boys who stare at her longingly to back off—not because she’s my friend, but because she’s so much more than that.

And I hate it, because I can’t.

I hate it for the same reason I hate the people around here—those in the merchant class who tease me and look down on me like I’m something disgusting, and the people in the Seam who whisper around me like I’m a ghost they’re already set on forgetting. No one wants to hire a girl who looks at her friend like that. Not when her friend is a girl, too. I can’t work in the mines, no one will have me as an apprentice, and I can forget being a performer like the Covey; I’ll never have the talent for something like that.

Mr. Lipp is on his deathbed, too. His health gets worse every day, and I know it won’t be long before his time comes. Despite him only being in his fifties or sixties, the years have taken a toll on him. There are times when I think his mind has gone off somewhere to a place in his past. Something fonder than what he knows now. He talks of when he was mayor—of when he had a family and when his life was much better than this. I don’t know how much of it’s true; I’ve only ever known him as a man from the Seam, and I doubt that will change after his death, but once he’s gone, what will I do?

I’ll have no home, no job, no support—nothing. I can tell he doesn’t approve of my lifestyle just like everyone else around me—the way I cling to Annabel Lace. He calls it a “condition,” but he doesn’t berate me for it. He doesn’t seem to hate me either. I know he probably puts up with it because I’m the only person who’s shown him kindness in the last thirteen years, but the truth is that I do care for him. He’s the closest thing to family that I’ve got, and I’ll be truly lost without him.

Once he dies, I’ll just be sad, old, lonely Ada McFarland. A girl from the Seam who was orphaned young and loves wrong. Annabel Lace will surely marry. She won’t have a problem finding someone who loves her and can provide for her. Someone she can flaunt around town without shying away from the sneers and derogatory terms. I know that she loves me, too, but I worry that it’s not the same.

I remember that conversation from when we were twelve. She said, “folks like us,” but I think it was different then. My love grew into something it wasn’t supposed to be. Something it isn’t supposed to be. We were just kids then. How was I supposed to know?

Annabel Lace will be performing tonight with the Covey at the Hob. I’ve only been there a few times for her, but honestly, the place scares me. It’s our district’s black market, and though I know Peacekeepers seem to frequent the place in search of white liquor or even something stronger, I don’t like the risk of defiance. I’m already on thin ice with the son of the Mayor—a boy who’s tried one too many times to court Annabel Lace, never taking “no” as an answer. I don’t want to be caught somewhere where I can be arrested.

Still, I go for her.

I always do. She says she performs best when she knows I’m in the crowd, and how am I supposed to deny a smile like hers? I hate that I never have anything nice or fancy to wear when I go, though. Most people make a bit of an occasion out of it. I guess the people of District 12 still like to preserve some of the old traditions from before the Dark Days, when music performances were an event and people could connect through song and dance—Peacekeepers and citizens alike.

Annabel Lace says it doesn’t matter, and she just likes when I’m there because she wants me to see her shine. It’s funny, because she’s been shining for as long as I’ve known her. I’ve been standing in her light, lucky enough to have been chosen by her, since the day she first approached me and said, “Our names both start with the letter A. Let’s be friends.”

I guess that’s why I’m okay with the disgusted looks and the snide comments. Barb Azure and her partner make do; they just have to be careful about it. I’ll just have to be careful about it, though I sometimes think there’s no point. Who else could I spend my life with if not Annabel Lace? I don’t know if she’ll ever look at me that way, but it’s hard to think that my heart could dare to long for another.

No, I might be like this forever. Content with where I am. Content to be her friend. Honestly, that wouldn’t be so bad, so long as I could stay by her side in some way. Any way.

The Hob is booming with people. It’s crowded and loud and busier than I’ve ever seen it. There are whispers of a celebration going around the district. Apparently, a new strip of coal and resources has been found, and it was like striking gold. Miners have gathered to drink together, laughing and gorging themselves, talking about spoiling their families with things they never get to have—things like chocolate, fresh bread, and premium cuts of meat. The Covey performing tonight is the perfect final touch, and the place is buzzing with anticipation.

I see a woman, who’s a bit older than me, working at the bar. If I had to guess, she’s probably in her early twenties. She’s got sweat on her forehead, and her sleeves are rolled up. Her skirt flourishes and billows as she moves through the crowd, delivering drinks, taking emptied cups, and hollering orders. She looks tired, but she also looks unstoppable.

My gaze lingers on her as she dodges people, insults, and catcalls. Her bangs are braided and pinned to the side as the rest of her auburn hair flows down her back. In the right light, it looks like fire, and it contrasts well against her pale skin. As I approach the bar, she notices me and holds up a finger, signaling that she’ll take my order shortly. Up close, I notice her bright green eyes—hard-set and focused on her task—as she mixes several drinks together and pushes them onto the bar towards a crowd of hands.

“Name’s Susanna, but you can call me Sae,” she says, walking up to me. She tosses a towel over her shoulder and places her hands on her hips. “You look a little young. What do you want?”

“I’m just waiting for my friend,” I reply. “She’s playing tonight. Can I have some water?”

Sae snorts. “Easiest order I’ve had all night. You can have that, and I’ll give you a bowl of soup for not cussin’ at me for takin’ so long. On the house.”

“You don’t have to do that for me.” I wave my hand politely. “You look busy enough as it is.”

“Work is work,” Sae says with a shrug. Behind her, a man yells at her, holding his cup in the air, and she holds up two fingers at him without even turning his way. “Gotta make a livin’ somehow, kid.”

“Don’t I know it,” I grumble. “I can’t find anywhere that’ll take me.”

“What, a young thing like you? I don’t see anything wrong with ya.”

At that, I swallow. “I guess people don’t like someone being… different.”

I want to leave it vague, unsure of what her reaction could be. It’s already something of a known secret here in the district—my fondness of Annabel Lace. If people in the Hob can’t even bear to look at me the same way, then I might just have to accept the fact that I’ll be scraping by until the day I die.

Sae only hums, however, eyeing me. There’s an air of familiarity in her gaze, but I can’t place where from. After a moment, she strolls to the back and returns with a glass of water and a steaming bowl of soup. It’s a pot-roast stew, with softened potatoes and sliced carrots. My mouth waters from the smell—savory and salty—and I realize that I haven’t had a meal like this in a while.

“I don’t think we’ve ever been officially introduced, Miss Ada McFarland,” Sae says, flashing me a smile.

Before I can question her how she knows my name, she nods towards the stage, prompting me to turn around. The Covey are getting set up, and I can see them bringing instruments out, getting ready to play. Annabel Lace isn’t on stage yet, but Tam Amber and Barb Azure are. Barb Azure turns in my direction, beaming like the sun in mid-July, but she’s not smiling at me.

“But I’m sure you know my girl, Barb Azure.”

I turn back to Sae, speechless and confused. Though I’m not confused. Not really. Just dumbfounded and properly, utterly surprised.

“You said you can’t find a job?” she asks.

Fast forward to the end of the night, and my feet and legs are killing me. Sae took no time in introducing me to the job, offering to train me and take me on as extra help on busy nights like this. I was worried that it would go horribly, but I did surprisingly well. I think the customers appreciated getting their drinks twice as fast, too.

The Covey performed for most of the evening, only singing for a few songs. I miss when they used to sing more, but Annabel Lace says they’ve slowly stopped incorporating lyrics, so as to not upset the District or the Peacekeepers. Still, I got to listen to them and see my love up on the stage. It was fun to watch her twirl and dance, and I could’ve sworn she smiled brighter when she saw me working alongside Sae.

Before I was sent on my way, Annabel Lace clinging to my arm and humming beside me, Sae told me to come back any time I needed work. The truth is that the Hob still intimidates me. Just a little. It operates only because the Peacekeepers and the Mayor allow it, but one slip-up could mean everyone goes down. But Sae was nice, and the people were nice. No one looked at me weird or whispered criticizing remarks behind my back. I made more money than I’ve ever held in my life, and Sae just smiled at me and patted my back.

“Maybe it’s not so bad,” I say to Annabel Lace, walking her back towards her home. The Covey had stayed behind to have some drinks, but since Annabel Lace and I are both teenagers, we decided to turn in early. No point in sitting around a bunch of drunk adults. I already did that for the better half of the evening.

“What wasn’t so bad?” Annabel Lace asks, still wrapped around my arm. I try not to think about her side pressed into mine.

“The Hob. Working there. I didn’t mind it.”

“You should’ve seen the look on Barb Azure’s face when she realized you and Sae were working together.” Annabel Lace giggles. “I don’t think any of us expected that, but I’m not complaining. Does that mean you’ll be there every time I perform?”

“Do you want me to be?” I ask, turning to look at her.

We stand just outside of the Meadow, a few feet away from the door to the Covey house. The moon shines down on the two of us, right on Annabel Lace, and it looks gorgeous glinting in her eyes. Her skin practically glows in the soft, pale light, and I can’t help the way my heart rate jumps. She’s got a soft smile on her lips and something like a lover’s fondness in her gaze, and all I really want to do is lean in and kiss her.

I really shouldn’t kiss her.

“Why wouldn’t I want you to be?” she replies softly. “I always want you near.”

My fingers twitch at my side. I want nothing more than to brush her hair back and hold her close. One wrong move, and I could change our friendship entirely, but when she’s looking at me like that, I can’t think of anything else but us. together.

“If you say that, I’m going to think you like me,” I tease, nudging her with my shoulder.

Annabel Lace’s expression doesn’t change, and all she says is, “I do.”

My breath hitches, unsure of the weight beneath her words. It sounds like more. It feels like more. The way she’s looking at me, the way she’s talking to me, the way her eyes flicker for just a moment—down to my lips and then back up again.

Maybe I’ve been wrong this whole time.

I lean in, slowly, giving her time to back up or push me away. She stays right where she is, however, and I only barely catch her eyes fluttering shut before I gently press my lips to hers.

I feel like it’s cliché to say that a first kiss is like an explosion or a burst of emotion that engulfs you and washes over your senses. Stories talk of a first kiss like it’s the most powerful thing in the world, capable of sweeping you off your feet. Kissing Annabel Lace isn’t like that. It isn’t some big wave of energy that knocks me on my ass or steals my breath away. It’s not like the clouds have parted, my heart has combusted, or I can feel the sun even in the evening.

Kissing Annabel Lace is like the warm water of the lake brushing against you on the shore. It’s like a nap in the Meadow on one of our rest days, where the temperature is just right and the breeze is cool on my skin. This kiss is a slow, creeping vine that has wrapped itself around my heart, never to let go, and I don’t want it to. It’s changed everything, but not in the sudden, eruptive way that’s disorienting and confusing. It’s winter turning into spring turning into summer. It’s warmth and happiness, and—for once in my life—I understand what it means to say that love is magical.

It’s magical.

When we pull away, Annabel Lace only smiles at me. She’s holding onto me like letting go is a sin, but I’m clinging to her just the same.

“I was wondering when you’d work up the courage to do that,” she quips, and her voice is airy and light. Like a small flute, notes dancing through the air.

“Stuck with me forever, girl,” I say, mimicking her.

She hums, smiling fondly. “Forever girl.”

I smile back.

“I like that.”

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

It’s been a week since the Games have started. Since then, at least sixteen tributes have died. There could be more that I don’t know of, considering we didn’t know to keep count of the cannon fire, but all I know for sure is that we’re closer to victory. I’m closer to getting my Annabel Lace home.

She’s still sicker than a dog. Her condition has gotten worse since day three, and there have been no sponsor gifts to save or heal her. In fact, we haven’t gotten any gifts at all. Despite making it this far into the Games, it seems we’re rated pretty low in popularity.

Some could theorize it’s because we’re not fighting or killing people and we therefore don’t make very exciting tributes to root for. It doesn’t help that Annabel Lace is too weak to hold her own in a fight, and I’m not going to risk my life when she needs me to take care of her.

But I think the real reason is because of who we are.

Sure, I’m not dumb enough to openly proclaim my love for her. Annabel Lace doesn’t need me to say it for her to know it, and we’re both aware of how the rest of the country views a love like ours. The Covey and some people in District 12 might be okay with it, but I know that our reaping wasn’t a coincidence either. Barb Azure and Sae were lucky enough to avoid it, but it seems we weren’t. It certainly didn’t help that Sorrel, the Mayor’s son, still holds a grudge against me for “stealing” Annabel Lace from him, though she was never his to begin with.

But the truth is that it doesn’t take a genius to figure us out. Annabel Lace and I have been inseparable for years now, and that’s only been strengthened since we’ve come to the Capitol. I wasn’t ignorant to the stares and the confusion during training, and I specifically remember being told before our interviews to not mention our “friendship” to the audience.

This system has always been rooted in intolerance, and we have not been spared from it. I’m sure everyone in the Capitol is waiting for our eventual deaths, but I’m determined to keep going until she’s the last one standing.

I think she knows it, too. She has to have some sort of hunch about it at least. I can see it in the way she looks at me every time a cannon fires. It’s never something that we outright discussed, but she has to know that I’m not doing all this for myself. The closer we get to being the last two tributes left, the closer we are to having to kill each other.

But that’s never going to happen.

From the day our names were drawn and I looked our sneering Mayor in the eye on stage, I knew I’d be dying here. That’s why I have to keep being careful—why I have to keep being strong. I’m so unlike the Ada McFarland that left District 12 on an old steam train, and I’ve transformed into something else. Something of a survivor.

I’m basically a killer, too, the darker part of my mind says to me.

I try to shake it away, but the thought still lingers. I might not have taken a life through the blade of a sword or the glint of a throwing knife, but I’m not innocent either. When I close my eyes at night, I think of the redhead who died fighting the mutt. I think about the other two girls—her district partner and a girl from District 10—and wonder if they’re doing alright or if they’re only barely hanging on. I look for their faces every night in the sky, and I don’t know if it’s better or worse that they haven’t died yet.

I didn’t even bother to learn their names, and that’s what hurts me more.

I don’t know the redhead’s name.

I sigh, pushing the thought away. I can revel in my guilt once I’ve died and Annabel Lace has won these games.

Right now, I just need to focus on keeping this smoldering going and cooking the food that I’ve managed to catch. It turns out that there is wildlife in the area, but none of it resides in the forest. If we want to eat something that doesn’t come from a pack or a parcel, then we have to get it swimming in the water, waiting with a line and hook to drag it to the surface.

It took us four days to figure that out, but now that I know, we try not to go far from the beach. Annabel Lace and I have found a perfect hiding spot just at the edge of the woods, under a cluster of rocks, shielded by long, hanging branches, leaves, and vines. Fanning out the smoke to keep us hidden is tiring work, but there’s nowhere else we can go, and we need to eat.

We have no idea how many tributes are left now.

Most of the Careers are dead. The only ones left are Venus from District 2 and Pearl, a girl from District 4. I remember her in training—her broad, muscular shoulders signifying the body of a swimmer. Even her hair was cut short into a pixie cut, and she revealed in her interview with Lucky Flickerman that it was to reduce resistance while swimming in the water. Annabel Lace and I are pretty capable swimmers ourselves, thanks to the days spent at the lake just outside of the fence, but even this is impressive. We’re nothing like Pearl, and it’s thanks to her that we know to be careful in the water.

Not only does this arena have the bear mutts, but there are orcas here, too. I never knew what they were called. I only overheard the name being thrown around by Pearl one day when I was watching her swim, trying to figure out how to best catch our next meal. They’re also known as killer whales, and from what I’ve seen, that name is a more accurate description.

These mutts seem to hunt anyone who ventures too deep into the water. If you find yourself cornered, unable to get to the beach, you have to be a damn good swimmer to get away from the orcas. They’ll either tear you to shreds and let your blood stain the water, or they’ll drag you down until you run out of air and drown.

I don’t know which death is worse.

I’ve seen both.

All of it is horrific.

Aside from the two Career tributes, however, all I know for sure is that the girls from Districts 7 and 10 are still alive and Annabel Lace and I are alive. That leaves two tributes unaccounted for, but I have no idea who they are or if they’re even in the games. I could be wrong, and it could only be the six of us left.

In that case, can we really hold out long enough to win this?

My answer comes to me at the sound of another cannon firing.

Annabel Lace and I jump, looking up at the sky, though we know we won’t see who’s died until night falls. I’m left wondering who it is, though if I had to guess, it’s likely either the girl from District 7 or the girl from District 10. In my mind, it’s hard to fathom a Career dying. I remember how surprised I was to see the tributes from District 1 a few nights ago, but I should remember that it’s not impossible.

“There are at least seven more people left,” Annabel Lace whispers.

Her face is pale and sickly—so unlike the bright, glowing tan I know it to be. Her eyes are sunken, too, and I know her throat burns every time she talks. Still, there’s a spark in her eye. A shimmering light of hope that tells me she’s not ready to give in yet. My love is still fighting, and I love her for it.

“One step closer to home,” I say, kissing her on the forehead.

It’s stupid of me to make a move like that, but she needs me. And, truthfully, I need her. If the cameras have captured this little moment of ours, then I can only hope that people see it as a friendly, comforting gesture rather than an act of love.

Though who knows?

President Snow is always watching, and I’m sure there are Gamemakers or Peacekeepers assigned to each tribute. In an arena like this, I doubt anything will be overlooked. This is the Capitol’s first time building a stage for the Hunger Games, after all. I just hope that knowing one of us will die in here will curb the hostility. A kiss on the forehead means nothing when we’re not making it out of here together. Not alive.

“Ada,” Annabel Lace says, and I can tell by the tone in her voice where this is going to go.

“You should lie down,” I say. “I’m going to go fishing again for us soon.”

“No, wait,” she protests. “We’re getting close to the top five. We need to talk about—”

“We don’t need to do anything right now. Just get some rest.”

“But what happens if—”

“Rest,” I insist, coaxing her down. “Please.”

I’m unable to hide the desperation in my voice this time. I know she knows what I’m thinking, and she hates it. I hate it, too. She doesn’t want me to die, but I’m not selfish enough to win this thing. Not unless I could still have her, but winning means her death is ensured. That’s not a life I want to live. That’s not something I’m prepared to do.

We can talk about this later.

“I’ll be back,” I promise, gathering my makeshift fishing rod and spear. “Just get some rest.”

I don’t like the look on her face, but we’re low on food, and I have to catch more. It’s a tossup for how much longer we’ll be here, and if I’m going to have any hope for getting Annabel Lace home, then she needs as much energy as possible.

In the meantime, I decide to boil some of the saltwater I gathered earlier. We were able to scavenge and create our own distillation system with two bottles from the bodies of other tributes. It’s not perfect, and it takes a long time, but it works and gives us safe drinking water. That’s the only upside to having a deadly beach as half the arena. There have been Games where people died from dehydration, so I’m thankful that’s not something we have to worry about.

“Keep the fire going, but only smoldering,” I say to Annabel Lace, pointing at the glowing ashes and kindling. She nods in reply but doesn’t say anything.

I can tell she’s upset by me brushing her off, but I can’t handle that kind of discussion right now. Not yet. It’ll start a fight—I’m sure of it—and where would that leave us?

Right as I start to climb through the branches and vines, another cannon goes off, and I freeze.

Did I hear that right?

Turning back to Annabel Lace, all she can do is gape up at me. Her eyes are wide, her mouth is ajar, and her breath escapes her in a shocked gasp.

“Six tributes left,” I say. My voice sounds hollow.

“Who do you think it was?” she asks me.

Swallowing, I force myself to shrug. “It could be anyone. Maybe even a Career.”

“It’s hard to believe something like that is even possible…” Annabel Lace murmurs, trailing off. She looks me in the eye. “Please be careful.”

I nod, steeling my nerves. We’re getting close to the end of it all, and I can’t stumble or mess up now. It doesn’t matter if the two tributes who died were Careers or not; I have to be prepared to fight someone. We’ve been here for a week, and we’re all feeling restless. There is no District versus Career mentality anymore; the “pack” doesn’t matter. This is every tribute for themselves, and that means being smart.

I’m relieved to see that the beach is clear for the time being. The space around me seems to be relatively peaceful, and there isn’t anyone to spot for miles. Our hideout and my fishing spot are several yards away from the Cornucopia, allowing me to keep an eye on the center of the arena without getting too close.

There are few clouds in the sky, and the sun—if that’s even the real sun—beats down on my back as I start to wade into the water. It’s warm out but not as bad as it was on the first day. My boots sit on the shore, just a bit further out from where the waves reach, and I’ve got my suit pulled down from the top to my hips, letting the arms hang by my legs. The tank top underneath it is stained from sweat and dirt. I know that bathing isn’t really a choice in the Hunger Games, but I hate the feeling of grime that’s coated my body. Being in the water helps, and I take liberty in letting its cool temperatures wash over me.

I stop when I’m about knee-deep in the ocean, hoping I can bring in at least one or two fish for supper tonight, but so far, the line’s completely dead. Going further means I run the risk of being hunted by an orca, and if I stay out here for too long, a tribute could find me. I try to stay alert, keeping an eye on my six as the minutes continue to pass by.

The clouds slowly drift, and my skin feels hot under the sunlight. I try to keep cool by ducking into the water every now and then, but it’s not doing much to help. I’ve always been on the paler side, only really darkening in the late summer, which means being out here for too long is brutal. I’m sure I’ll be returning to Annabel Lace reddened by the sun.

Just the thought has me missing her, and it won’t be long before she starts to worry. It’s been a couple of hours since I first came out here, but I’ve had no luck. Normally, I can get by with a few catches—never anything big, but we make do—but I guess I’ve run this spot dry of food. I’ll definitely have to venture further away if we want to eat, so I decide to head back and tell her before going out again.

Right as I’m about to start wading to the shore, an arrow whizzes past my face.

I drop to the water before I have a chance to think, my heart immediately racing. If I hadn’t turned my head when I did, I’d surely be a goner. The cannon would have sounded, and Annabel Lace would have been left all alone.

I grit my teeth, pushing forward under the waves, and try to strategize. The saltwater stings my eyes. I push against the sand, staying below the surface, and use it as a cover to move in closer to my attack. When I come up for air, another arrow passes me, but this time, it’s farther away. Whoever it is, they don’t seem to have very good aim, and I tell myself that’s good. That helps.

I can fight them.

I dropped my makeshift fishing rod in the ocean, surely lost forever, but my left hand grips hard onto the spear. I’ll have to get in close without getting hit, and that’s assuming that whoever is attacking me doesn’t have a partner.

I curse to myself. How many people are there?

Looking around, I only see one figure. She’s blurry as my eyes still try to adjust from the sea salt and the light, but I make my way towards her. I can tell already that this is not Pearl from District 4. Her hair is dark, pulled back into a tight ponytail with little flyaways by her ears, and her tan skin glows in the sunlight. Immediately, I know this girl.

District 10.

One of the girls I left to fight the mutt.

“This is your fault!” she screams at me, raising her bow and arrow. It’s a sleek weapon, much like her longsword, though I have no idea where that’s gone. “They’re dead, and it’s your fault!”

I jump out of the water, only to land back in it a few feet away—just barely dodging the arrows that hit the water beside me. “Wait, wait! I don’t—I’m—listen, can we talk about this?”

My vision is clear, though I’m dripping with water as my wetsuit drags me down, the waves pulling at the loose arms. I’m vulnerable here, but this girl has me pinned. I can’t get to the shore like this.

Now that I’m closer, however, I can see that she’s not in the best shape. There’s a large, scabbing gash across her face—cutting from her left ear into her cheek and across her nose. Along with that, her skin blisters, and I now understand why her aim isn’t good. Her eye has been swollen shut. It almost looks melted. The vision is grotesque and painful, and I cringe just looking at the wound. Her suit has rips all over her body, and I can see bandages that were haphazardly thrown on her limbs.

“We could have fought it,” she cries, her voice cracking in anger. “We could have taken it! We saved your lives, we offered an alliance, and you left us!”

“My partner was sick!” I defend. “There was no way we would have been able to help, I—”

I move again just as she notches another arrow, immediately releasing it to fire. On her back, she has dozens more stashed away, and I know it’s only a matter of time before she hits me.

I don’t want to fight this girl.

The truth is that she has every reason to hate me. She blames me for the death of the girls from District 7, and I blame me, too. I know that it was a selfish move, and I know that we could have—should have stayed behind to help, but…

I am not a killer.

I am not Victor material. I don’t have the stomach to be one, and I can barely stand up for myself when people whisper about me at school. The truth is that I’m weak, so how was I supposed to stay behind and help them fight that mutt? Annabel Lace and I would have surely died that day. I know it. Our names were reaped out of hate. The District, the Capitol—everyone around us will surely be happy when we’re gone, because people don’t love a love like ours, and there’s no chance they’ll ever come to accept it.

I am not a killer.

Running through the water, my legs push against the waves as the pressure resists me. The girl from District 10 takes a panicked step back, but I keep my eyes focused on her hands. As soon as I see her ready to fire, I’m dodging again—as if something has taken over me. As if I’m an entirely different person. As if I’m an animal, fighting for survival.

I am not a killer.

I reach the girl in no time, kicking her flat in the stomach, sending her back onto the sand. She gasps for air, reaching for a knife in her belt, but I hit her with the butt of my spear. She’s cursing, flinging herself at me until we’re both rolling in the water. Salt burns my nose, and her hands are tight around my throat, but I manage to hit her in the face where her wound is, and she screams, falling back. It gives me just enough leverage to overpower her as the tide pulls us further to the sea.

I am not a killer.

I’ve lost my spear in the fight. It’s been taken, like my fishing rod, by the water, and I doubt I’ll be able to get it back. The girl from District 10 and I are both kicking, trying to stay afloat while fighting each other. She’s screaming at me about the mutt—about its searing hot claws that could cauterize flesh, about its razor-sharp teeth that can tear a limb clean off, and about its armor-like fur that resisted all attacks except for its mouth and eyes. I hear the names of the girls from District 7—Autumn and Laurel—and my self-loathing only grows.

I am a killer.

I killed those girls. Autumn, the redhead who silently pleaded with me for help. Laurel, the girl who succumbed to her injuries days later. It’s surely my fault that they’re gone, and that’s why the girl from District 10 is trying to kill me. She’s avenging them. It’s not something you see often in the Hunger Games—such strong District solidarity. Things are often “every man for himself” when it comes to a battle royale, but here she is, fighting tooth and nail, with tears in her eyes as she mourns her friends.

I don’t know her name either.

That’s what makes me such a horrible person.

As much as I don’t want to admit it, I am a killer with the way I shove her off of me. Her nails scratch my face as she fights against the water. I am a killer as I swim back to the shore—leaving her behind and swimming as fast as I can, despite the aching burn in my arms and legs. I am a killer because of how I ignore her screams as she bobs above and below the surface, and I know that an orca has caught ahold of her foot.

I don’t look back, I ignore the rising scent of iron and blood, and I try not to think about the darkening color of the water that threatens to catch up to me. My heartbeat is pounding so loud in my ears that I almost don’t hear the cannon fire, and when I make it back to the beach, I can feel blood dripping down my face. My cheek burns from where the girl managed to scratch me, and I’m sure I’ll be left with a reminder of my selfishness in the form of four jagged scars.

I’m tired.

My body aches, my blood mixes with the golden grains of sand below me, and I have no way of defending myself if I’m attacked again. My spear is lost to the ocean, and the Cornucopia stands proudly in the distance. The waves have carried me much further than I expected. Annabel Lace will be waiting for me, and she’s probably worried herself sick over where I’m at.

Slowly, I start to stand, fighting against my body, as all it wants is to lie down. I need to make it back to her, so I force myself to move—little by little—until I’m hobbling along the shore. My throat hurts from where the girl had tried to choke me, my face aches from the scratches she left behind, and my muscles are sore from the swimming and the fighting.

How many more tributes are left now?

At least five. There are three other girls aside from me and Annabel Lace, maybe more or less, and the prospect of winning suddenly seems less impossible. My heart races at the thought. Would it really be so hard?

I find the answer waiting for me by the sea.

A short distance away, under the unforgiving light of the sun, I see Annabel Lace locked—blade to blade—with none other than Pearl from District 4. Pearl has a trident in her hands, caught on the knife that Annabel Lace desperately grips, and her jaw is clenched in effort. Annabel Lace’s arms shake as she tries to hold her own, but a kick sends her rolling across the sand, her voice crying out in pain—cracked and raw from where she’s still sick.

I break into a sprint, trying to get there in time, as Pearl stands over her, ready to bring her trident down and kill the one person I’ve been trying to protect. Even from here, her body language emanates pride. Tall, imposing—almost like a statue—and completely unforgiving, she raises her weapon into the air.

She looks like a victor, with no qualms for what she’s about to do, and I can only watch, reaching out and screaming as loud as I can.

It rips from my mouth like forcing a root from the ground. Spit coats my chin, and my throat burns, but it’s enough to take Pearl by surprise. Her head jerks my way, only for a half-second, but it’s enough. Time is time, and Annabel Lace uses the moment to sweep her legs out from under her. Pearl collapses, her trident hitting the ground, and I watch as Annabel Lace makes an attempt to cut her with the knife.

Pearl grunts and rolls over, however, barely dodging, and they struggle together in a mess of limbs. A blade enters Pearl’s shoulder, causing her to scream, and her trident shines in the sun as it comes down on Annabel Lace’s arm, tearing through her flesh. Blood drips onto the sand, staining it red, and right as I reach them, Pearl kicks Annabel Lace away.

I grab her, holding her in my arms, and spin us around so that my back is to Pearl. She screams, crying out from the pain of her wound, and I rip the knife from her hands and push her away. When she turns around, I can only barely catch the look of betrayal on her face, and it’s then that I know she knows the truth.

“We’re getting close to the top five. We need to talk about—”

She knows I’m going to die for her.

Before she can say anything, however, I whip my head to face Pearl.

She laughs, dry and harsh, holding onto her shoulder that’s now dripping with blood. “I’ve been waiting for you two to come out of your little hidey-hole.”

I swallow, heart racing, trying to assess the damage.

It seems like Annabel Lace got her dominant arm, which means defending myself might be easier. Still, Pearl is bigger than me and stronger than me, and I doubt she’ll go down easily. If anything, she looks invigorated—getting off on the high of battle, bleeding in honor and glory and all of the other Capitol propaganda bullshit.

But she’s talking. I can use that.

“Waiting around just to fight the two of us?” I ask. “We can’t be that special.”

At that, she sneers. “I remember watching you both during training. I saw your reaping and how you talked about each other in the interviews. It’s disgusting.”

My jaw clenches, and suddenly, I’m back in District 12, watching all of the other kids look at me and Annabel Lace like we’re not even human.

“The Capitol will never accept a victor like you,” Pearl spits. Then, she looks past me at Annabel Lace. “Or you.”

It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, but something about it is different this time. Maybe it’s the way that Pearl so confidently and surely says it—right to our faces. Maybe it’s the venom in her voice and the revulsion in her words. Maybe it’s years and years and years of intolerance and scrutiny and hate that has built up and manifested into a rage that I’ve never felt before, but I know that I’m tired of hearing it.

I charge at her, knife in hand, my jaw clenched and my knuckles white around the handle.

Pearl smiles at me like I’m falling into her trap. Her trident glints in the air, and—despite the stab wound in her shoulder—she seems to have no problem wielding it. I only barely block the attack, blades screeching from metal on metal, and I cry as one of the prongs strikes my leg. Pain surges through me unlike anything I’ve ever felt before, and I can see the trident sticking out of my thigh like a skewer through meat over a fire.

Then Annabel Lace is on her. Before Pearl has a chance to withdraw or prepare herself, she’s on the ground. As they fight, I drop the knife in favor of gripping the trident’s handle, and my breath quickens as I try to pull it out of my leg. I scream in agony as every muscle in my body tells me not to remove it, but I have to in order to help my love.

Blood gushes from the wound, making me woozy, but I force myself to stay focused and keep pulling. The point of the prong tears through my flesh, and I nearly black out from the pain, but then it’s out, leaving me heaving.

A few feet away, I can hear punches being thrown—flesh hitting flesh—and I blink a couple of times until my vision rights itself. I reach for the arm of my suit, still hanging at the waist, and tie it tight around my leg to restrict the blood flow. It hurts even worse now, but I’m more concerned about Annabel Lace.

Pearl has her by the hair, slamming her head into the sand. I grab her arm and twist it back, and she cries out, reaching for her shoulder. Annabel Lace kicks up at her, her arms wrapped around her stomach, and it sends me and Pearl tumbling back.

When I land, I can feel the handle of the knife digging into my back, and I blindly reach for it. Pearl is still on top of me, trying to give herself leverage, but my other arm wraps around her abdomen, pinning her against me—back to chest. She flails, scratching at my arm, throwing her head back in an attempt to slam into my face, but my fingers finally take hold of the knife, and before I can think, I reach up and drive it into her stomach. Pearl gasps, choking, and I pull back and stab her again. I can feel the blade scratching my stomach, and that’s how I know it’s driven all the way through her body.

The feeling of forcing an object through the flesh of a person is something that I know will never leave me.

After a few minutes of her soft gurgles and weakening attempts to release my grasp, the cannon fires. I breathe heavily beneath her, struggling from the weight of her body and the weight of knowing what I’ve just done. I don’t make any attempt to push Pearl off of me. Not yet. I don’t have the heart to do it yet. The feeling of taking someone’s life directly has still not sunk in, and I’m left completely different from who I was just a few minutes ago.

I will never be Ada McFarland again.

It was one thing to leave the girls from District 7 to die. It was one thing to out-swim the girl from District 10. It was one thing to hide ourselves, avoiding the bloodbath and the fighting and the horrific truth of what these games are—us playing house while everyone struggled to survive.

No more.

I can’t run from it anymore. My hands are wet and slick with Pearl’s blood, I could feel her slow, ragged breaths come to a stop, and I know that my tank top is now torn and stained with proof that I have just taken a life.

I can still feel the knife sinking into her stomach.

“Ada…”

The choked sound of Annabel Lace’s voice breaks me out of my stupor.

“Ada, please get up,” Annabel Lace cries. “You have to get up.”

A single tear slowly falls from my eye, and then I’m moving, trying to shove Pearl’s body off of me. The struggle makes my leg flare with pain, and I cry out. I hear Annabel Lace gasp, and then she’s helping me out from under Pearl. We sit together on the sand, under the bright, uninterrupted spotlight of the arena’s sun, and we are forced to look at what we’ve done.

“I thought you were—” Annabel Lace stops herself, choking on a sob.

“I’m okay,” I say weakly, holding onto her. “Though I don’t know if I can stop my leg from bleeding.”

She gasps, looking at my wound. My poor attempt at a tourniquet is doing nothing to stop the flow. The trident went clean through me, and if we don’t find a way to close the wound, I’ll surely die. Blood pools into the sand below me, and I can already feel myself growing weaker as the adrenaline wears off from my body.

“Ada, we’re the last ones left,” Annabel Lace whispers, her eyes wide and desperate.

My head whips to hers in an instant, and I almost think I hallucinated it.

“What?” I ask.

She nods. “That’s what Pearl said.”

Her hands shake as she reaches for my thigh, trying to figure out how to stop the bleeding. I want to comfort her, but it’s taking all my strength just to hold myself up, leaning back on both arms. Annabel Lace is curled around me, uncaring of how it might look to the rest of the world, and I find that I don’t really care myself right now either.

“I was looking for you after I heard the first cannon shot, because I thought you had died,” Annabel Lace explains. Her voice tremors. “That’s how Pearl found me. She said she’s been waiting for the fourth tribute to die so she could kill us.”

The fourth tribute.

The girl from District 10.

Dread washes over me as the reality of the situation sinks in.

“Ada, it’s us. We’re the only ones left.”

Annabel Lace’s expression has fallen into despair. I can see it in her eyes that she knows what I’m thinking—what I’ve been thinking since the day our names were reaped—and she’s already shaking her head before I can say anything.

“No,” she says. “No, no, no. I’m not letting you do that. I—”

“Annabel Lace,” I whisper, willing myself to stay strong. I reach for her face, my hand gently resting on her cheek.

“No, you can’t, Ada. You can’t. That’s not fair.”

“Annabel Lace, my leg can’t be healed here,” I say, caressing her with my thumb. “I’m going to die already. You can win.”

“I don’t want to win,” she chokes out. “Not like this.”

Her arm is bleeding from where Pearl struck her, but it’s nothing compared to my wound. Even if we sit here, I know that I’ll be the first to take my last breath.

“You deserve to go home.” My voice is stern because it’s the truth. Still, she’s shaking her head as I talk. “You deserve to grow up and perform. You need to look out for the Covey and your family and fall in love and live.”

“It’s not worth it. It’s not worth it.”

Her words crack as tears begin to spill down her face. I do my best to wipe them away, but it’s fruitless. She will cry and cry and cry for me, and as much as it hurts to see, I know that it’ll be okay. She’ll be okay without me.

“I already did fall in love. I’m not doing it again,” Annabel Lace says over a broken sob. “I don’t want to go back there if it’s not with you.”

“I’ll be there with you,” I promise, leaning my forehead against hers. “Always.”

“There has to be a way to save you,” she whispers, and it sounds more like a plea than a statement.

I shake my head, though, still holding her close. I know that the Capitol will hate this. I know that people are already watching us with disgust and disdain. The Mayor in District 12, Peacekeepers, Gamemakers—hell, even President Snow—were all waiting for us to die from the start, but my love and I are too damn stubborn to die.

I’m okay with it now. I don’t care if they hate it, if they riot, if they burn this recording and never play it again. People will see it. They have to see it. They need to see that we’re not different just because we’re District, and we’re not different just because our love isn’t the same as theirs.

So, tears in our eyes, I take Annabel Lace, and I pull her in for a kiss.

Her lips are shaky against mine, trembling as she stifles her cries. I’m shaking, too, both from the pain and the slow acceptance of my death. I’m not as scared as I thought I would be, however. The idea that Annabel Lace will continue to live comforts me, and I know that she’ll ache in my absence, but she’ll heal, too.

She has the Covey and her music and her mourning doves to support her, and she’ll always have my love.

Our kiss isn’t like the ones we’ve had in the past. It’s not a soft, stolen peck or a chaste press of the lips. I kiss Annabel Lace, slow and languid, taking my time and savoring our final moments together. Her mouth moves against mine in a way that makes my chest warm, and the pain slowly fades from memory as I’m engulfed in the feeling of her body against mine.

Her breath evens out, and her tears start to dry. I tangle my hands in the strands of her hair, knowing it will be the last time I hold her. In response, her arms lock around my neck, and we slowly fall back onto the beach, surrounded by the sand and the soft, rolling waves of the ocean. I start to kiss her greedily, without restraint, until we both part, gasping for air.

“I love you, Annabel Lace,” I say to her, smiling. My voice is weak, and I’m starting to see splotches in my vision. It won’t be long before I slip into unconsciousness, so I had to make sure she knows it one more time.

“I love you more,” she whispers. “Ada McFarland.”

She hums to me, a small tune from back home. It’s warm and soft, the sound of her voice, reminding me of all the times I’d listen to her sing. I think that dying to a melody like that isn’t so bad, with her hands in my hair and the sun on my skin.

“Please keep living without me.”

My eyes shoot open.

Annabel Lace is pulling from me before I can register it.

“Annabel Lace,” I croak, trying to sit up.

She shushes me as she starts to stand.

“Annabel Lace!” My voice is louder this time. More desperate.

“I love you” is all she says. Then, “I’m sorry.”

The sun is bright in my eyes, but I try my best to look up at her. Panic sets as she slowly backs away, and all I can do is reach for my love. Annabel Lace reaches back, tears streaming down her beautiful face, but the distance between us only grows.

“Stop. Stop! What are you doing?” I cry out.

I brace myself on my hands in an attempt to stand, but the pain in my leg flares, and my vision whites out. Crumpling back to the sand, I groan, and when I look at her this time, Annabel Lace is waist-deep in the water.

“Annabel Lace!” I scream, but my voice sounds muffled in my ears. Water washes against my arms and chest, but I still try to drag myself further to the ocean. “Please! Stop! Come back! Annabel Lace, come back!”

When she turns to me, the wind whips through her hair. It dances across her face, behind her head, and flips and flies all around her. Everything around me is booming and muted all at once. The sound of the waves, my desperate cries, and my heartbeat thundering against my eardrums is the only thing I can register.

Then she smiles.

Annabel Lace smiles, mouthing the words that I can never unhear, and falls into the ocean.

I love you, my forever girl.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
 Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
 Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

The school has us learning about birds—specifically, canaries and their use in the mines.

A man stands next to our teacher with a little finch in a cage, explaining what its purpose is and how they’re able to tell when the air is bad once it stops singing. The bird’s bright yellow feathers twitch as it pecks at its confinement, and all I’ve learned is that I feel sorry for the creature for having to be sent to die so carelessly.

“It’s cruel and wrong!”

Turning my head, I see a girl standing up from her desk. Her brows are furrowed, and her arms are crossed as she glares accusingly at the miner. She’s my age—definitely no older than seven—and continues to rant.

“You’re killing these innocent birds when they haven’t done anything wrong! You take them to the mines to die! It’s cruel!”

There’s a whisper across the classroom as the teacher tries to calm her down.

All I can do is stare at her in shock, surprised to see someone so willing to talk back to an adult. After going back and forth for a few minutes, she eventually sits down in a huff at the threat of detention. Her arms stay folded across her chest, and she pouts at the bird.

It’s almost laughable, the sight of her. Her curly hair has been braided into two pigtails, and her eyes burn with anger. She doesn’t look very threatening, but even from where I sit, I can tell she feels strongly about the canary. I’m sure her glares are doing nothing to deter the teacher or the miner, however, but I don’t see her give up until the lesson is over.

As kids start to clear out of the classroom, the girl stays in her seat. Her head is lying against the desk now, face hidden in her arms. I can see her shoulders shaking, only slightly, and wonder if it’s my place to do or say anything.

I don’t really know why, but I think I should.

“Are you okay?” I ask quietly, a little shy.

The girl freezes and keeps herself hidden from my view. “Yeah.”

“I think you’re right,” I offer. “It’s not fair what they do to the birds. They shouldn’t be locked up like that just to be killed in the mines.”

At that, she raises her head, turning to look at me. Now that I’m closer, I’m able to see her features more clearly. Her hair is a deep, rich brown, matching the color of her eyes, and her skin is tan and dotted with freckles along her nose and cheeks.

“They should get to live freely,” the girl says. “Canaries are timid and peaceful birds. They don’t cause any trouble, and all they want is to live calmly and carelessly. They should get that.”

I nod in agreement.

I didn’t know all that stuff, but it’s impressive to me that she does. I listen to her ramble on as I slowly take the seat next to her. My questions only spur her further, and I realize that she has an entire arsenal of knowledge about birds and plants. She tells me that she loves nature and that her family—the Covey, she calls them—teaches her all about it at home.

Eventually, she stops talking and asks me for my name.

“Oh, I’m Ada,” I say. “McFarland.”

She smiles in reply, taking my hand in hers. “I’m Annabel Lace Bair. Our names both start with the letter A. Let’s be friends.”

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

I’ve never seen the world so dull before. Everything around me looks muted and grey. The sun is out, the grass is green, and the sky is blue, but I might as well be staring at an old, colorless photograph. I feel frozen in time, lacking warmth, and my mind wanders far from my body.

The sight of Annabel Lace disappearing beneath the waves will remain with me forever.

I barely remember the aftermath of the Hunger Games.

I know that I was taken from the arena, barely able to fight as my hands dug into the sand, desperate to reach for my love now gone. I’m pretty sure Gamemakers had to put me under some sort of drug, the world going black for an indeterminate amount of time, because the next thing I remember, I was being treated in a pristine, white hospital room.

Everything else was a blur. There was some sort of celebration in the Capitol, and I could hear fireworks from outside, but in here—disconnected from everything around me—I simply lay in hollow silence. A part of me hoped that I would be killed for my actions—mine and Annabel Lace’s display of love—but it seemed like the Capitol was set on keeping me alive.

The first Quarter Quell needs a victor, I suppose.

The Victor Ceremony and Crowning escape my memory. I remember flashing lights and thunderous applause and the cold, heartless, disapproving stare of President Snow as he placed the crown on my head, but I don’t think I even uttered a single word the entire time. Lucky Flickerman just had to make do with my silence and the replay of the last week of my life.

Unfortunately, however, it seems as though there was an issue in the arena.

“Oh, it was an event to behold,” Lucky had promised, smiling at his audience. “It’s such a shame that so many parts of the broadcast were lost to faulty equipment. I’m told that there will be a revised recording in the coming weeks.”

Yes, it seems my Games weren’t recorded in full.

The people responsible for that technology have surely been killed in order to set an example and ensure that a mistake like this will never happen again. Misinformation has already been sprinkled across the Capitol, talking of male tributes that didn’t exist and an elective reaping that never occurred.

I’m not surprised to know that the President will go to great lengths to rewrite history, but seeing my story being erased so soon leaves me wary of my fate.

No one else seems to mind, though. Everyone will be eagerly awaiting the broadcast of my Games, the debut of the new arena, and the eventual Victory Tour that’s meant to take place six months from now. I’m being prepped with lines and stories—lies interwoven with the truth as a way to convince the general population that what happened never happened. I’m sure that violence and force will be a part of it—a strong suggestion to the districts that resist or defy me—and my cooperation is not only necessary but mandatory.

The thought of having to go along with this story, to sit in a cage like a canary in the mines, makes me angry.

Annabel Lace will be forgotten, and no one will care to know the truth. That’s the reality of this fabricated story. I get to live at the cost of Annabel Lace’s legacy. President Snow needs someone to parade around—someone to hold their arms up and say, “Look at how generous the Capitol is!”

Well, don’t worry, President Snow.

I know exactly what I must do.

The sun warms me as I sit in the grass, far deep into the woods of District 12. I hum absentmindedly next to a new stone grave, known only to me and the people of the Covey. My love’s name is etched onto the rock, warmed by the autumn sun. It’s a beautiful, soft white, almost reminding me of the marble I saw in the Capitol. I smile down at it, thinking the color is perfect.

Back inside the fence, people are cheering, dancing in the streets, and drinking white liquor until they can’t walk right. Everyone except for me and the Covey. I know they’re holed up in their home. They’ve denied every gig since Annabel Lace and I went into the arena, and I know they’re refusing to play now.

Who knows when they’ll find the strength to perform again?

“Oh, Annabel Lace, my forever girl,” I say to myself, looking up into the trees.

Thick branches dance in the wind, and sunlight speckles my face through the leaves. I stay there until the sun begins to set, and the sky shifts its color from a bright blue to a deep orange. At times, it looks near golden, and I am reminded of my Annabel Lace and her beautiful eyes when the light hits them just right.

I don’t cry.

I’ve lost the ability to cry.

My hand clasps around an empty bottle and a vial, and all I can feel is peace. I’m consumed by warmth, my body feels weightless, and I know that what I’ve taken is working when my eyelids are too heavy to keep open. Still, I fight—not because I want to live, but because I want to see her one more time. I can feel her presence as the wind caresses my cheek, and it feels like her.

My forever girl.

Her soft skin, her gentle touch, and I think I sense the familiar press of her lips on mine.

I exhale softly, finally closing my eyes.

It’s dark now, but I know I’m with my Annabel Lace.

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea—
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

The Capitol mourned the victor of its first Quarter Quell for three days.

Although, it was perfect, really.

Mentions of Ada and her condition were scrubbed from history. Recordings of her Games were altered and cut under the guise of old, faulty equipment. Personnel involved with the Quarter Quell—Gamemakers, Peacekeepers, and high-ranking Capitol citizens—all died under suspicious circumstances; only President Snow knows of and possesses the original tape.

Districts were made to forget about her, and mentions of Ada were eventually treated as an act of rebellion. Her display and message surrounding “love” is not to be tolerated by the Capitol, as tolerance leads to freedom.

And though District 12 had produced yet another victor, the truth is that Ada McFarland and Annabel Lace Baird will remain forgotten forever.

That is, until one day, when the President’s mansion is stormed, its archives are seized, and the Districts come across a tape of the 25th Hunger Games.

And a girl with a dark braid, wielding a bow and wearing a mockingjay pin, sees someone who calls herself “Covey” with a girl who’s clearly from the Seam and thinks, they look like me.